The Art of Letting Go
by the unbirthday girl
Summary: ...or trying to, anyway. The funerals of the fallen demigods of TLO. For TackAttack. / Charles Beckendorf, Michael Yew, Silena Bauregard, Ethan Nakamura, & Luke Castellan.


**a/n. written for secret santa on the ****of prompts and challenges**** forum.**

**word count: **763

**dedication: **for tack (TackAttack), using her request/prompt/theme/whatchmacallit: _The funerals of the fallen demigods of TLO. _merry christmas, tack.

* * *

**The Art of Letting Go**

* * *

_Charles Beckendorf  
_{they whisper their farewells to a haze of golden smoke}

* * *

The air is thick with the smell of burning.

He deserves better than this. Everyone is thinking it. He was too young; too kind; too brave. He was a hero.

Charles Beckendorf's body has not been found. They burn metal instead (like the bronze that he had once so lovingly crafted), and they whisper their farewells to a haze of golden smoke. The little ones cower behind their elder siblings; some of them not understanding what's happening, and the others knowing all too well.

In the background of it all are the sobs of the left-behind: the choked wails of Silena Bauregard, the hiccupping whimpers of his siblings.

(The warm and glowing soul of a hero has been carried away in Death's cold arms; and somewhere in the ocean, a photograph floats aimlessly like an old memory, already blurred beyond recognition.)

* * *

_Michael Yew  
_{it was like the ultimate disappearing act gone wrong}

* * *

Those who bother to attend all wonder what he looks like, in death. He had been a scowler, a pessimist. The boy with the million-dollar smile, they had called him, behind his back—it was not that his smile had been particularly beautiful, really, but that it had been so rare, that made it valuable.

Mourners, the majority of them golden-skinned and baby blue-eyed, sing quietly. Their voices blend together into an eerie and beautiful melody, and the sound travels up to the heavens along with the smoke.

_Never found,_ you can almost hear some cold voice whisper, if you are listening hard enough. _Presumed dead._

They tell each other that he is finally smiling, in Elysium.

(But even as they toss white flowers into the fire, they pray that this bitter boy has found peace.)

* * *

_Silena Bauregard  
_{_traitor_ is an ugly truth which they will not admit aloud}

* * *

She had once been beautiful, smooth-skinned and bright-eyed. She had been a light, the embodiment of the hope they all clung to.

Silena Bauregard's face has been marred by poison; and her reputation, by lies. _She's with him now, _some say, by way of comfort. _She was the traitor, _others think, honestly. (But no, they will not dare to utter these words aloud, not ever.)

Some clench their fists—_it was all her fault, all of it, she killed every one of them_—and others stand with loved ones, fingers intertwined tightly, as if holding each other to the earth—_she was a hero, gods, I loved her so much, why'd she have to go?_

Silent tears are shed. The smoke is pale pink, and it blocks out the sky.

(And yet none of this alters the fact that the daughter of love has done a very hateful thing, and paid with her life.)

* * *

_Ethan Nakamura  
_{and to think, that a single eye had tipped the scales}

* * *

Only one comes to watch the pyre burn. A bitter girl, black-haired and hard-hearted, lowers her head and almost wishes she were not alone.

But Ethan Nakamura had been a lonely boy. It's fitting, she thinks, in a depressing sort of way. She holds back her tears. _Oh, come on, cousin, _he would have teased her. _It's all right to cry. Scared of a little salt water?_

Her fingers are steepled just beneath her chin now, her eyes closed, as if she is praying. But Drew Tanaka has no faith, only herself. She is not strong; she is brittle, and when she breaks, she picks up her own pieces.

(A one-eyed ghost lingers behind her, and he wonders just what he's left behind before the breeze carries him away.)

* * *

_Luke Castellan  
_{it's a bitter victory, really}

* * *

The last to remain by the fire is a blue-eyed girl who has long given up on holding back the tears.

She had loved him; Thalia Grace had loved Luke Castellan, and he had loved her back. She may love him still, but even so, it is both foolish and forbidden—he can no longer love her back, and she is a Huntress, Artemis' lieutenant, her most trusted handmaiden. But it was an inescapable fact, really, and an obvious one.

She unclenches her fists, and sees that there are shining red crescents on her palms. She takes a deep breath. Breathe in, breathe out. _It'll be okay._

She collects her bow and sheath of arrows from the ground by her feet; looks up at the sky, pearly gray; and walks away.

_Everything's going to be okay._

(Luke Castellan was a liar; and so, now, is Thalia Grace.)

* * *

**a/n. phew. how'd i do? care to tell me in a review?**


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